


A Hell of Your Own Creation

by Yrindor



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Magical Accidents, Mundane Magic, Religious Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yrindor/pseuds/Yrindor
Summary: A simple tale of a writer (and accidental witch), her pen, and unexpected company.
Relationships: A Writer & Her Sentient Pen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: It's All in the Name (Take #1)





	A Hell of Your Own Creation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosemarycat5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosemarycat5/gifts).



The cock crowed somewhere overhead, waking Ilyana long before she was ready. She squinted an eye at the barely rising sun, grumbled at the hour, and pulled the covers back over her head.

It did no good. The rooster continued with its incessant crowing, as if it knew she were considering sleeping late. Poor discipline, but she had been awake until after midnight searching for a reference in an old, dusty tome filled with handwriting that was no more legible by lamplight than it had been by sunlight.

At last she gave up, tossed the covers aside, and stumbled to the kitchen to set the kettle on to boil.

"About time," a voice croaked from the top of a precarious pile of papers covering every free surface of her desk.

"I didn't ask for your opinion."

"And yet I provided it anyway, as I am your most faithful servant. Don't forget the town paper wanted the article on geraniums by this afternoon, and the book club needs the sample invitations for next month's social by the end of the day. Oh, and your publisher plans to bring over the proofs for the spellcasting manuscript at eleven."

Ilyana sighed and threw an extra handful of chamomile into her tea. The day was already giving her a headache, and she hadn't even changed out of her nightgown yet. The kettle whistled, and she poured it out into her mug, then used the time it took to brew to change into a more suitable set of clothing for the day.

"Don't take too long," the same voice called from her desk. "You don't have time to dawdle today."

"I should toss you out the window for the magpies," Ilyana called back.

"You know you would never do such thing. You are the one who brought me here after all, and where would you be without my help?"

"If you want to be helpful, then you can start thinking about the wording for that invitation. I don't know why they insist on coming to me when they rewrite the entire invitation every time."

"You know it's not your words but rather my charm that draws them in. They may be an entire group of readers and writers, but not one of them is a calligrapher. It's my flourishes they're interested in. Whoever writes out their invitations is rather skilled as a copyist, but I know my own signature when I see it."

Ilyana brought her mug of tea to the desk, balancing it on top of another pile of books. There was a desk somewhere under all of the papers; she was sure of it. Someday she really would find the time to clean it properly; for now, she shifted piles of papers and half-finished to-do lists until she was confident she wouldn't be caught in an avalanche. Then, she greeted her fountain pen with a glare. "If all they want is letters to copy, why don't they just ask for a calligraphy sampler and save everyone time?"

"I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that, but I would assume it has something to do with your offering your services as a _writer_ , not a calligrapher. I suspect old Brother Lawrence might not take so kindly to word that someone new was encroaching on his territory."

"In that case, they can continue as they are. It's bad enough having the reverend warn his entire flock against me. Not to mention the headmistress of Miss Nottingham's. Last I heard, she was using me as an example of what happened to young ladies who didn't follow directions or show common decency. Don't see what's so bad about it apparently; I'm rather happy with the cottage."

"I believe she takes issue with the concept of an unmarried woman making a _career_ for herself, and one involving salacious romance novels no less."

"Oh, be quiet," Ilyana said. "I only wrote one of those, and it was on commission. You know I prefer my romances with a healthy side of adventure, and maybe a dragon or two."

"Ah yes, _Once Upon a Twice-Spun Wing_. How ever could we forget?"

"I'd like to remind you that summoning a demon into my fountain pen was an entirely accidental and unplanned occurrence. How was I supposed to know that thinking aloud while writing a character summoning a demon would bring such a thing into reality? I've never heard of such a thing happening before, not even in the most obscure manuscripts I pored over for that book, or local newsletters of the hedgewitch circles, of which I've read many since they always seem to be in need of copy editors or ghostwriters."

"I am simply noting that it would not be a far stretch of the imagination to assume that the headmistress of the lady's finishing school and the local minister might have certain qualms with a single lady who lives alone, writes questionable material for pay, and is in the possession of a demonic pen. Also, the reverend's wife is coming up your front walk now."

"Oh, what does she possibly want now?" Ilyana muttered as she hastily shoved papers into neater piles and kicked the worst of the clutter under the sofa. "I'm still not interested in purchasing cookies from her baking circle; at least one of them can't tell the salt from the sugar."

By the time a hesitant knock sounded at the front door, the sitting room had at least the semblance of order. If she were a student at Miss Nottingham's, she would most certainly receive a demerit for pillows that were askew and bookshelves in need of a thorough dusting, but so long as no one opened the bedroom door or peered too closely behind the furniture, it shouldn't offend normal sensibilities.

"Good morning, Mrs. Livingstone," Ilyana said when she opened the door. "What brings you all the way out here this morning?"

The woman looked around nervously, as if she feared being seen. "It's a...delicate matter. I do hate to intrude, but would you mind if we stepped inside?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't have time for a long conversation right now. I'm expecting business relations shortly."

"I promise I won't take long. I won't even ask for you to put the kettle on, but it really is a most delicate and sensitive matter."

"Fine," Ilyana conceded, stepping aside to let the other woman inside.

As soon as the door closed, Mrs. Livingstone reached for her oversized handbag. "It's the upcoming parish social," she said as she rummaged around in its depths.

"I'm sorry, I'm not interested."

"Oh, no, of course not. You've made that quite clear before, dear. It's about the invitations."

"What about them?" Ilyana asked, now entirely lost.

"You must understand; the Reverend is a good and holy man."

"I have heard that," Ilyana said.

"Well, you see, the Reverend is a very good man, but the poor soul has never quite grasped that not everything needs to be a sermon. Just look at this," she said as she shoved a piece of paper in Ilyana's direction. "Without intervention, _this_ is what the entire parish will receive."

Ilyana squinted at the thick sheet of paper. If she looked hard enough, she could in fact identify it as an invitation. It was a challenge, however, as the date and location were buried under needlessly ornate blocks of script, and every remaining inch had been covered by what must have been a half dozen Bible verses. The overall effect, she had to admit, was atrocious. "I see your point," she said, "but why are you bringing this to me?"

Mrs. Livingstone scuffed the toe of her shoe on the stone floor. "I overheard a few of the ladies from the book club gossiping at the last high tea. They mentioned that you as the mastermind behind their invitations. As much as it pains me to admit it, it was an excellent example of its kind, and so I find myself here before you against my better judgement to ask if you might be willing to assist an elderly neighbor in her time of need."

"You want _me_ to make the invitation for the parish social!?" Ilyana asked, quite certain she must have misheard.

"Don't say it so loudly!" Mrs. Livingstone hissed. "I'll never hear the end of it if anyone catches wind of this, but please. I can draft an invitation in a pinch, but I don't have nearly the same facility with words as you, and this is the most important parish event in generations. Our church was erected nearly two hundred years ago, and although the spire was rebuilt after it was struck by lightning seventy-three years later, the rest of the building is still entirely original. How many other parishes can say the same? The Reverend is holding a special, commemorative event for the occasion, and the invitation needs to reflect the gravity of the moment."

"Does he know you're here?" Ilyana asked.

"Of course not! He's still convinced you're up to any manner of demonic and un-Christian activities up here, a position I will admit I'm not entirely certain is untrue, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I hope I'm not asking for too much. All I need is the words; I'm sure I can manage a basic layout myself. In return for your assistance, I promise I will never send the baking circle, or any other parish solicitations, in your direction again."

It took a concerted effort for Ilyana not to let her jaw drop open. If someone had told her that morning that the opportunity to be freed from the majority of her unwanted visitors would present itself on her doorstep, she would have laughed them right back out the door. "I'm sure I can come up with something," she said. "If I were to send a draft down to you via morning post the day after tomorrow, would that be enough time?"

"That would be perfect. Thank you so much. I, and the parish, will be forever grateful for your service."

"If that's all, I don't mean to be antisocial, but I really do need to prepare for a business appointment," Ilyana said.

"Oh, of course. I'll be on my way now, dear. Thank you for your assistance."

Ilyana let out a sigh of relief as she closed the door after Mrs. Livingstone departed. "That certainly was a surprise," she commented.

"I could have made it far more exciting," her pen commented from the desk. "Do I get any praise for not scaring her out of her skin? It would have been entertaining."

"I don't believe in rewarding a bare minimum of civility. Sometimes I wonder why I keep you around."

"For my charming wit and radiant personality," her pen replied. "Also, you've never figured out how to undo the summoning spell since you still aren't sure exactly what you even cast in the first place."

"As much as it pains me to admit it, I find I have to agree on both counts," Ilyana said. "I know cats are traditional as witches' familiars, but a pen seems more fitting for an author, doesn't it? Plus, I'm allergic to cats, and the constant sneezing detracts from the ambiance. How long do I have before Perkins arrives?"

"Forty-five minutes, assuming his train left on time. Do you still have any of that coffee you bought from the Nature's Explorers girls last time they came by? You know Perkins always forgets that the trains serving the back country don't offer the coffee service he's used to in the city, and it makes him even less agreeable than usual."

"I'm sure I still have it somewhere; I can't imagine what else I would have done with it. I don't suppose you remember where I left it?"

"No idea. I'm a pen, not a housekeeper. I'd try the kitchen though. Maybe that one cabinet you never open?"

Ilyana winced. "There's a reason that stays closed. It's as likely as not to all come tumbling out, but if it will keep Perkins from grumbling about the state of the rug tassels or selection of ink for his pen, I suppose it's worth the risk."

"Fare thee well, valiant adventurer," her pen said with a dramatic flourish as she disappeared into the kitchen. "We shall await your return with bated breath."


End file.
